Inevitable Results- Johnlock
by WingsOfDuskAndDawn
Summary: John and Sherlock return to 221B Baker Street after a case, and both are hyped up on adrenaline and that lovely sexual tension that Sherlock doesn't understand and John has been ignoring for his sake. What happens when Sherlock becomes aware of it? Pretty much pure smut, of course. I OWN NOTHING.


**First, the official (and too long) title of this piece is actually "The Inevitable Results of Curiosity and Adrenaline in 221B Baker Street. Because FF wouldn't let me write that, I shortened it to "Inevitable Results." Fairly basic kind of deal, the boys return from a case and have some life-affirming sex. The only thing is that I decided to go with Virgin! Sherlock, and this is their first time. I'm not going to lie, this is pure smut, so if that's your thing, you'll love this. I'm planning on working on another multichapter fic soon, for those of you who want something with a little more meat, but this is sort of to tide you over. I hope you like it!**

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"Damn that was close!" John laughed breathlessly as he and Sherlock finally made it into 221B, shutting the door behind them. Another night, and another chase through London, left his blood pumping audibly, his heart racing in his chest like it was trying to make an escape, and his muscles singing with joy they hadn't known since Afghanistan, at least until Sherlock Holmes had come into his life and given him so much more than his mobility.

"Yes, it definitely was." Sherlock's voice was dry, but he too let out a deep chuckle, and just that easily, the air in the room seemed to change, to charge with electric energy. John caught himself gasping, and pushed himself off the wall he'd braced himself against, heading toward the kitchen to make tea.

Sherlock was used to John acting a little strangely after crime scenes, but he'd never addressed it before. However, with Moriarty's recent defeat and his return to London, it sometimes seemed like nothing had changed… and everything had. John was everything Sherlock had remembered—a little greyer, perhaps, and he'd picked up his habit of walking with that bloody cane again until Sherlock's return had once again eliminated his psychosomatic limp—but with an edge that he couldn't quite identify.

Curious, he decided to follow the doctor into the kitchen, where he was buzzing around with almost manic energy. Sherlock was used to him doing this, of course; he would make their tea, and then he would enter the living room and collapse while they both sipped at their tea. Then Sherlock would sleep for hours, perhaps days, and John would do whatever Johns did while their Sherlocks slept.

Today, however, it seemed like a good idea to shake up their routine. So Sherlock came up behind John silently, making him gasp again and nearly fumble their tea, if Sherlock hadn't managed to still his hands before his face was covered in the steaming liquid.

_That_ was the exact moment Sherlock noticed a change. Pressed up against John, the doctor's back against the counter, he realized that he felt _something_, something which he'd never felt before. It took him a few moments, then, to realize that John was looking up at him with dilated pupils and a racing pulse, staring wide-eyed at him from shock… and arousal.

But it wasn't the same as it had been with anyone else. This was _John_, and this wasn't for a case or an experiment or simple curiosity. And for the first time in his life, Sherlock felt a response. It felt like all his blood was being drained out of his body, slowly, except it was all congregating, instead of fleeing, and he really didn't know what to do with that.

Sherlock Holmes, genius consulting detective, had no idea what was going on in his own body. All he knew was that he wanted _more_.

"John?" He asked uncertainly, feeling so many emotions all at once that he couldn't have isolated and destroyed them if he tried. This, then, was what it felt like to be overwhelmed. But he was the one holding John to the counter, instead of the other way around, and knew he could, technically, step away at any time. It terrified him that for the first time in his life, he wasn't repulsed by this sort of physical contact. His body was moving of its own accord, hips rocking very gently into John's abdomen, and he wasn't sure what he was doing.

"Sherlock." John didn't sound uncertain at all, so Sherlock was relieved when he reached up and tangled his fingers in those curls that were inky in the dim lighting of the room. Relief quickly turned to something entirely different, however, when John carefully brought their lips together. Sherlock, who'd never really known hunger of any kind before, was suddenly _desperate_, and couldn't help the whimper that escaped him when John's tongue flicked over his lips, a silent plea for entrance. Sherlock, who could have denied him nothing in that moment, opened his mouth willingly, and John spun them and put the tea back on the counter while he stroked his free hand down Sherlock's side, making him shiver almost violently.

"It's okay, Sherlock." John breathed against his lips, and the curious melting sensation that had begun to take the consulting detective over intensified. His whole body was trembling, and John's touch, instead of soothing him, was only starting fires, especially when he touched the bared skin at Sherlock's wrist. His pulse jumped frantically against John's fingertips, and he knew his breathing was extremely unsteady. But he felt like an observer, unable to reign his transport in as he would have done any other time.

"I… Tell me what to do, John. Tell me how to put out this… fire." There were no other words for it, no other terms that were acceptable, and even though he had frequently ridiculed John for using similar poetic language in the past, Sherlock was far beyond caring.

"Do you want this, Sherlock? If you want to walk away from this, you'd best do it now." John's voice was calm and soothing, but horror rose up in Sherlock. How could he walk away from this, and never know what it felt like to be… complete?

"John, please, I need…" The words wouldn't come, and Sherlock shook his head, desperation making him cling to John, his rock in the storm.

"Sssh, baby, it's okay. I know what you need. I'll take care of you." John took Sherlock's hands and led him up the stairs, never mind that the downstairs bedroom had been closer. He wanted the chance to worship Sherlock's body completely, if only for one night, and he highly doubted that a man who seemed to have never experienced lust before would have the necessary supplies.

When they were finally ensconced in John's bedroom, he began to slowly unbutton Sherlock's shirt, hearing the way his breath caught every time John's fingers brushed bare skin. He was letting out little gasps and moans and shifting restlessly by the time John had finished, and the sound that left him when John's hands slid up his chest to push his shirt off his shoulders was nearly inhuman.

The silk fluttered to the floor as John went to his knees, earning a strangled gurgle when he carefully undid Sherlock's slacks and let them fall down those seemingly endless legs, leaving him in just his pants, almost completely bared to John's hungry gaze. But it wasn't enough, not yet, and when John slid his pants off his sharp hipbones slowly, Sherlock's head fell back even as his eyes fluttered closed. He wasn't at all sure how he was going to stay standing, not when he was already shaking almost violently.

"Relax for me, honey." John's voice whispered against his skin and he nudged Sherlock backward, until his legs hit the bed. His knees buckled, unable to hold him, and he found himself sitting on the edge of John's bed, fingers tangling in the bedcovers as John lowered his mouth over Sherlock with a frankly wicked grin.

Sherlock yelped at the first contact of his tongue, but even that was nothing compared to the way he felt when John's mouth closed over him, taking him halfway down and beginning to suck gently, flicking his tongue all around, stroking over the tip in a way that earned more of those little noises while his hand stroked what was left.

Knowing his lover wouldn't last very much longer, John moaned, and the vibrations made Sherlock officially lose it. He came with a scream, hips jerking even as John pinned them to the bed, making sure he wouldn't choke as he swallowed. It was a little gross, sure, but if he was honest, he much preferred swallowing to having to clean the mess up off his carpet. And when he stood and looked at Sherlock, who'd collapsed back on the bed and was shaking like a leaf, he decided it had been more than worth it.

The younger man's skin shone alabaster in the moonlight coming through the open window, and John had never seen anyone who could manage to look so simultaneously debauched and innocent as Sherlock did in that moment. Mouth open, eyes closed, chest heaving like a racehorse's, Sherlock was the picture of vulnerability, and the best part was that he was still letting out those tiny little noises, his fingers clenching and releasing the covers instinctively.

It was a sight John wouldn't have minded staring at all night, except he hadn't properly slept in two days and was actually pretty tired. With an indulgent chuckle, he slowly lifted Sherlock and turned him so that he was laying with his head on one of the pillows, before crawling under the covers on the other side.

Almost instantly he found himself tangled in those long limbs and that curly mop, because Sherlock came to his senses enough to scramble under the covers and press against John, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a hiss escaping him when he realized John was still completely clothed.

"John?" He asked hoarsely, that deep baritone that had given John more wet dreams than he'd have ever admitted sounding entirely too tempting in his ear. He contemplated feigning sleep—he wasn't sure that Sherlock, in his currently addled state, would even notice—but refrained because he knew that the consulting detective would probably feel very lost and confused right now, and need some sort of reassurance. John usually dated more experienced women because he knew all the pressures people tended to put on their first sexual relationship, but considering Sherlock was all he'd wanted for a very long time, he really didn't mind at all.

"Yes, Sherlock?" He kept his tone gentle, even though amusement threatened to bubble up. It wasn't directed at Sherlock, as much as at the situation, but he doubted his much less experienced lover would see it that way.

"I… You're still dressed." His voice sounded lost, and John's heart turned over. He realized that Sherlock had fully expected John to seek his pleasure as well, and though the doctor was admittedly as hard as a rock after having watched and listened to Sherlock lose his control so fully, the night hadn't been about him. It had been about Sherlock, and what he'd not only wanted but _needed_, and John was nothing if not a considerate lover. Prowess aside, that was one of the biggest reasons he had bedded so many women.

"Yes, Sherlock, I am." John decided to be cautious here, make it clear that there was no pressure. Sherlock had experienced quite a lot already that night, and John didn't want to push him further. And then he felt that cupid's bow press up against his cheek in an extraordinarily affectionate gesture, and he felt his heart kick in his chest, the pure innocence of the gesture making him have to suppress a groan.

"Um… do you want me to… fix that?" He still sounded very insecure, his voice small, and John turned to hold him a little closer, carding his fingers through his curls.

"Sherlock, I only want you to do what you're comfortable with, what makes you happy. Okay? There are no expectations here. If you want me to just hold you all night long, I'm happy to do that." John had to swallow for the next part, knowing they would be the hardest words he would ever say. "And if you want to walk away, and for this to never happen again, I'll respect that decision, too."

"No!" Sherlock gasped in instant denial, clinging tighter to his blogger with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"Relax, Sherlock. Like I said, I'm not going anywhere unless you want me to. I'm here as long as you want me." John was hardly going to let go of Sherlock for any reason other than the consulting detective's dismissal, and he did his best to make that clear by brushing a kiss over Sherlock's temple.

"Do you want me to take care of you like you did me?" It had taken Sherlock several minutes to work up the courage to make the offer, and John, who'd nearly been asleep, was now wide awake as if someone had thrown icy cold water on him.

"I… is that what you want? Because you don't have to. There are a lot of alternative methods, Sherlock, and if you don't want to, and it gets that bad for me, I can take care of it myself." John felt something rather insistent pushing against his side, and couldn't help grinning a little. "Did you want to go again?"

Sherlock bit his lip, blushing shyly, his roses and cream skin far too alluring in the moonlight.

"Do you think that you could… take me? I've never… but I've heard that with the right person it's… better than anything." Sherlock's face was burning now, and John didn't think he'd ever seen a more beautiful sight. Claiming a slow, gentle kiss with his hand cupping Sherlock's face, John pulled back a little to study Sherlock's face, seeing that while his eyes were at half mast, drowsy from orgasming, there was also a spark of lust there again, one that grew in accordance with the now insistent nudging at John's abdomen.

"Is that what you want? I'll give you whatever you want, Sherlock. If you want me to take you, I'll do so, but if you wanted to take me, I'd be fine with that, too."

Sherlock shook his head then, surprising both of them.

"I want you to teach me, John. And you follow me everywhere else… I don't think it's a bad idea for me to follow you in the bedroom. You have more experience, after all." John did groan at that, and the noise obviously startled Sherlock a little, as he jumped and studied his new lover curiously.

"Damn, honey, when you say things like that to me…" John shook his head, stealing another kiss that was decidedly steamier, and Sherlock just melted into it, clinging desperately to him.

"Please, John." John had always known he was putty in the genius's hands, but this night was proving it. There was nothing he wouldn't do for Sherlock, and he wanted to make sure the younger man knew it.

"Anything you want, Sherlock, it's yours." John breathed the words even as he slowly shifted them, laying Sherlock flat on his back while John knelt between his spread legs. It was a beautiful sight, and John felt incredibly lucky to be the first and only person who would ever see it. He stood up and stripped, aware of Sherlock's gaze roving swiftly over his body, before resuming his position.

"You're what I want, John." His voice was soft but determined, and John carefully leaned over to the nightstand, snagging the lube. Then he hesitated for a moment. He knew he was clean, and since Sherlock had never done this before, he probably was, too. Except…

"I'm clean. Don't worry. I was always careful with my needles, before. I have the report, if you need to look at it."

John shook his head, reassured completely. Then he slicked up three fingers, and began preparing Sherlock. He was extremely tight at first, and looked a bit uncomfortable, at least until John found his prostate with a doctor's unerring accuracy. Sherlock shrieked and arched off the bed, hips bucking restlessly for more. He was practically fucking himself on John's fingers before John pinned his hips again with his free hand, moving a little faster because he realized that Sherlock, still new to this, had a rather short fuse in bed.

Eventually, John had no doubt, he would have a bit more staying power, and they would be able to have slow, lazy sex and take their time with it. For now, however, he was in bed with a firecracker already lit, and he needed to move fast so they would explode together. It would hurt Sherlock's pride too badly otherwise, and he clearly wanted John to get off with him this time.

Sherlock let out a bereft whimper when John's fingers slipped out of him, only to gasp when the doctor slowly slid inside him, sliding in to the hilt before stopping to give the genius time to adjust. He did so by degrees, eventually nodding for John to continue. He made sure to rock against his prostate with every other soft thrust, quickly leaving Sherlock a whimpering, moaning, begging mess beneath him.

Feeling powerful in a way that he hadn't for a long time, John possessed Sherlock completely, masterfully pushing him to the edge with relentless, deep thrusts that stole both their breath. For a long moment he kept Sherlock right on the knife's edge of pleasure he was perched on, and then he threw him sharply off it with a bite to his neck, sucking a purple mark into his pale skin even as he let instinct take over and send him right over the edge with his lover.

John continued to gently suck at his neck even as he eased out of him, distracting him so that he wouldn't wince at the sudden sense of emptiness. They were both messy now, chests smeared with come and sweat, and before Sherlock had a chance to complain about the mess, John went and got a flannel to clean them up with.

He returned to the bed after he took it back to the bathroom, and tugged the limp consulting detective into his arms. Sherlock cuddled in willingly, holding John close and laying his head on his chest over his heart, and the doctor smiled in amusement as he kissed the top of his head. Sherlock drifted off easily to the quiet thrum of John's heart beneath his ear, but John was up a little while longer, stroking a hand down his back, wondering if life could ever get better than this.


End file.
